


Dim Lights and Dirt Roads

by mythjae



Category: Original Work
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 01:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15085712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythjae/pseuds/mythjae
Summary: One night of freedom from this militant monster-hunter bootcamp is all Jimmy wants, but he really should have thought about what to do once he got past the fences.An excerpt from an old work that was completely rehauled. I like this bit enough to share it anyhow.





	Dim Lights and Dirt Roads

Now was the perfect time. The halls were quiet; everyone was asleep or holed up in their offices and barracks. Tonight’s security guard watching the barrack halls was Jimmy’s buddy, a nice guy who’d seen how jittery Jimmy was getting, all cooped up with these other gun-toting—and frankly terrifying—soldiers in training. He had to get out, even if it was just for the night. 

Maybe he’d hit a nearby bar for a couple of drinks. Maybe he’d find someone to go home with—ha, that was good, maybe if he tried a little harder, he could convince himself of that one. Just, anything other than another night trapped in a room with three other guys that probably slept with guns under their pillows. Jimmy lived in constant fear that one of them would pull the trigger in their sleep and shoot him through the mattress. 

Mind made up, he slipped out of bed and picked up his standard-issue boots. He’d put them on once he was out of the barracks, otherwise, his clomping around in them would give him away in a second. He rubbed his free hand against his pants, trying to scrub away the clamminess, took a deep breath and stepped into the hall. 

Three steps down the bright white corridor, he slipped—damn, how had he forgotten the janitors and their strange, religious need to wax the floors every week? It wasn’t quiet, either. The solid thud as he hit the floor echoed against the walls, as did the sound of his boots landing next to him and his change spilling all over the floor from his pocket. There was a long silent pause before he was able to suck in a huge breath after having it forcefully knocked out of him. The shock wore off and the tingling in his back quickly morphed into a blooming ache. 

Jimmy sat up slowly, rubbing his now sore shoulder and resigned to the fact that he’d blown whatever chance he’d had of getting out. Oddly enough, no one came to investigate. One door close to where he was sitting opened up a crack and a trainee he didn’t know peered out blearily, only to give him the stink eye and shut his door again. 

Confused, but not about to question it too much, Jimmy gathered up his scattered items and—carefully, oh so carefully—made his way to the door at the end of the hall that led outside. It wasn’t until he’d made it out the door, across the training grounds, and over the fence—his poor pants would never be the same—that he stopped to think. He looked back once, but there were no alarms blaring, no field agents or hunting dogs after him, and he let out a small, breathless laugh. One night; he had one night of freedom, and he was going to enjoy it. 

Three miles down the road, Jimmy wondered how he forgot the little issue of transportation between the isolated training facility and any sign of civilization. He was walking down a long stretch of empty, creepy, tree-lined road. It was the perfect setting for a horrible slasher movie scenario. Jimmy would, of course, be destined to play the ditzy idiot that died, screaming and trying so hard to run that he’d end up tripping over some inconvenient tree root and doomed to a grisly demise. 

If they ever found his body, he’d probably get some cheap headstone that read: _Here Lies Jimmy. About damned time._ Wasn’t that a cheery thought? 

Ten minutes later, he saw a light ahead that turned out to the sign for be a roadside bar. Because bikers and murderers needed a place to hang out, too. Considering he was an escapee from a top-secret training facility that focused on exterminating things most people never imagined could be real, he didn’t have much room to talk. Oh, good. He’d fit right in.

As soon as he pushed the door of the bar open, he knew it was a mistake. He’d been joking about the whole serial-killer-bikers, but apparently fate wasn’t. He was suddenly, painfully aware that he was dressed as a cadet, in cargo pants, boots that had been passably shiny before he’d trudged the dusty road here, and a plain shirt. His real clothes were hidden away somewhere in the camp, not that they would have been much better. 

It only occurred to him after, that acting normal might have been the best choice. He should have walked right in like he wasn’t out of place and no one would have stared. That’s what one of the trainers had been telling him; if you act like you belong, few people will question it. Too bad ‘normal’ for him meant standing in the doorway and staring, all awkward stances and wide eyes and possibly some twitching. He stood there long enough to have nearly every set of eyes on him, most of which belonged to very large, very scary, very leather-loving bikers. Eyes that were taking on a bit of a reflective glow. One mountain of a man tilted his chin up and sniffed that air.

Jimmy, who’d worked up the nerve to take a couple creaky steps in, froze. Just locked right up like he’d been put on pause, one leg lifted mid-step as he saw it. And the very obvious, how-the-hell-had-he-not-noticed-it wolf shaped gang patches on their jackets. A bubble of hysterical laughter tried to crawl out of his chest and Jimmy had just enough self preservation—which hey, great, now it decided to show up—to force it back down. Werewolves. Freaking werewolves.

Just as he turned to walk right on back out, there was a man with an ugly scar down the side of his face blocking the way. Jimmy swallowed audibly and slowly turned back around. Woodenly moved toward the bar on legs that refused to unlock enough for him to make even a pretense at normal walking, because if he was going to die, maybe they’d at least let him drink something first. He had the alcohol tolerance of a gnat, he could knock himself out with a shot of vodka or something. Or pass out from fear. Really, either would work right about now. 

He made it to a bar stool without being eaten, which was good, it was progress. Progress in the wrong direction, but that was nothing new. Next thing he knew, he was seated on a stool, hands clutching at the bar and feeling the weight of a dozen stares against the back of his neck. It might have been his imagination that there was hot breath brushing his face from the guy in the stool next to his, which, really, he could have sworn they were further apart than that, but he didn’t look to check. The bartender raised an eyebrow at him, a quick glance down to see Jimmy’s white-knuckled grip on the counter before leveling him with a smirk. “You gonna order somethin’?”

Right. Bar. Drinks. That’s what he came here for, what they all came here for. Just drinks. No death, no siree, none of that on the sloppily scrawled chalkboard menu. His first attempt to answer was a garbled, mortifying mess and he gave up on it about a second and a half in, instead patting himself down for his wallet, as if he’d ever put it anywhere other than his back pocket. Of course, that was when he realized it wasn’t there. His patting turned a bit more frantic, but nothing changed, just his wallet-less clothes, already damp with his nervous sweating, and some change in his pocket. 

Change! Maybe he had enough to just look like a poor hitchhiker or something. A runaway from adult military school, maybe? Or was that just the military? He yanked out his fistful of change too fast and it clattered noisily to the floor, the soft murmurs of conversation going silent once more. Not that he noticed much over the sound of his heart trying to explode from fear and his own panicked breaths. 

Something thumped against the bar and Jimmy jumped, catching himself from falling off the stool with a death grip in the edge of the wood, and blinked at the open bottle of beer and an irate bartender. “Jesus fuck, kid. Calm the hell down.”


End file.
